


Stolen Time

by lightsinthedistance



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Helmetless Din Djarin, Implied Smut, Mentions of Smut, One Shot, Second person POV, Soft Din Djarin, the helmet comes off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsinthedistance/pseuds/lightsinthedistance
Summary: “A hiss sounds, and then a clank of beskar hitting the ground. Your jaw nearly drops in shock. For so long, you had wanted this. For so long, you had dreamed for this. But now, you lack confidence.”“‘Go ahead, mesh’la.’”-Feeling Mando’s face for the first time.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Character(s), Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 94





	Stolen Time

Tanned hands. Shiny beskar. Soft leather.

That is all you know of the Mandalorian.

Even when he has you bent over, thrusting into you roughly, he reveals no part of him. Most of the armor stays on. He conceals every part of himself from you: his mannerisms, his movements, even when he’s inside you—when he’s taking you in the most intimate way possible.

A reminder of a convoluted, volatile past that had become something more.

It started off purely on the intentions of business. He’d asked for your help on a bounty, you’d accepted. It was grueling in the beginning. He wasn’t much of a talker, and neither were you, but something about his stoicism gave you an overwhelming urge to garner any reaction out of him. After spending a few days with him, you’d begun to talk and talk and talk, just to see an annoyed squirm or gesture out of his emotionless form.

Nevertheless, he’d opened up after some time, and…well…you’d sort of simply stuck around. And that had evolved into whatever this was.

Your attitude towards him astonished yourself. For your entire life, you’d never been one to take strangers home for the night or have flings.

Yet here you were: committed to a man who you’d never seen the face of. Who you’d never kissed, never ran your hands through the hair of.

He’d told you his name in one of his few moments of vulnerability. It had been whispered in the dead of night, in the middle of the desert, after a stark reminder of his time on Mandalore had rendered him silent, haunted, and hurt. You’d coaxed a lot out of him that night: his fears, his hopes. You’d finally put a personality to the man that you lived and worked with each day.

And that was also the first night his hands had roamed your body, stripping you of your clothes, showing affection as best as he possibly could. The helmet had come off in the darkness with a soft hiss. But he never even let you turn your head despite the absence of light, never let you run your fingers remotely close to his face.

There was no denying that you were curious about what he looked like, but it was not possible with his creed for you to ever know. It threw up impenetrable walls between the two of you. You’d suggested an alternative exactly once, had asked him to let you feel his features, map out his appearance by touch.

There’d been a long silence after you’d asked, followed by a stark refusal. He’d spent the rest of the day in a foul mood.

Sometimes you believed that he wanted the same.

Like when you’d catch him staring at you, zoned out, a moment of rare daydreaming for him. You’d say his name, ask him why he was staring. His answer was always the same: that he wasn’t staring at you, and that you couldn’t possibly know what his eyes were focused on with the helmet. And you responded the same way. A surrender and a roll of your eyes that he pretended not to see.

But no matter how self-absorbed or self-assuring it may have sounded, you knew that he was always staring at you. It was  _always_ you. You could feel it. The sensation of his eyes. The raw intensity of his gaze.

And that is what you think upon as you sit in the cockpit of the Razor Crest, staring at the stars and the desert sands outside. A singular light shines dim in the small room, illuminating the files of a bounty in front of you.

The door opens behind you, but you don’t even spare a glance until the cockpit goes pitch black.

“Din, you know I’m in here, right?”

You know he is aware when he sits beside you in the other seat.

“What are you doing—“

“Shh.” He shushes you. His hand comes out, taking hold of yours, the soft leather familiar on your skin. “I was thinking about how you asked to feel my face….” His voice comes out uncertain, wavering.

You freeze. Din was nothing but certain. He was confident, assured in everything he did. And to hear his voice tremble makes your hands shake.

“B-but you said no,” you stutter out, eyelids fluttering in rapid succession despite the darkness. “You were angry the rest of the day, and—“

“I wasn’t angry at you.” His voice seems softer, even with the modulator of his helmet. Your hands grip the handle of the seat, apprehensive of what you believe is to come. “I was angry at myself. I  wanted to let you feel, but I didn’t.”

A hiss sounds, and then a clank of beskar hitting the ground. Your jaw nearly drops in shock. He takes your hand once more, dragging it up towards his face. You hesitate, unsure of how to process the moment. For so long, you had wanted this. For so long, you had dreamed for this. But now, you lack confidence in your movements.

“Go ahead,  _mesh’la_ .”

You nearly chuckle. To think that he would be the one encouraging you in a moment like this would’ve been unfathomable just hours before.

And you move your hand forward. Skin…hair…breath.

His hair is soft, pleasant to run your hands through. Not extremely short, but not long either. You follow the strands. Facial hair. Some stubble along his chin. A mustache.

Along the bridge of his nose. The bone beneath your fingers. His eyelids flutter as you run past them, feeling his cheeks and ears and forehead. Whatever you can get your fingers on.

His lips are soft, and you lean in with a certain yearning. He closes it with confidence, and you cannot fathom it. You’re kissing him. You’re feeling his skin beneath yours. You’re feeling his breath on you.

And then both your hands are on each other, desperately stripping away at clothes. He lets you feel his body too. Something you’d done briefly exactly one. So briefly to the point that you remember nearly none of it. His body is firm. Muscle lines and hard ridges. Yet not hostile. His form is inviting, begging to be touched, to be caressed in a way he’d felt so few times before in his life.

He’s responsive to you, leaning into you, pulling you flush against him. You now know that he’d been restraining himself all those times before. And you match his conviction with an equal vigor. Your hands are in his hair, gently tugging at the strands that had been forbidden to you for so long.

He pulls away, catching his breath, resting his forehead against yours.

“ _Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, cyar’ika_ ,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I’ve definitely seen this concept in more than a few places, but I simply just really like the idea for how intimate, personal, and sweet it is. So this is my take on it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Let me know what you think in a comment!
> 
> -
> 
> Mesh’la = beautiful  
> Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, cyar’ika = I love you, sweetheart/beloved.


End file.
